The Institute - a Hetalia AU Fanfic
by Writer Mione
Summary: I must be the luckiest person in the world. My name is Erika, I just graduated in Law, and now I'm in Geneva for a one-year post-graduation course in the top of the top Institute of international law all over the world. Seriously, I mean it. Only one person per country is allowed to attend the course every year. One opportunity in a million. Let's see what comes up from that.
1. Prologue

I must be the luckiest person in the word. Yeah, because if it depended on money, I would never ingress in the Institute. Well, ok, I _am_ smart (geez, where's my modesty?!), and this probably contributed too. But it was still a stroke of luck to link to that forgotten blog with only two followers, where they told about this scholarship.

There was pretty little concurrence in the day of the tests. Not because people wouldn't love to go to the Institute, but because no one will dare to imagine that our government would pay studies in such a high degree international educational establishment. But that's the kind of thing that happens in Brazil; if we only knew all the rights we have...

My name is Erika, I just graduated in Law, and now I'm in Geneva for a one-year post-graduation course in the top of the top Institute of international law all over the world. Seriously, I mean it. Only one person per country is allowed to attend the course every year. From the windows of the taxi I can see the stern building in the very core of the district of ..., and my heart seems to have discovered its vocation for being a drummer. I'm so anxious I feel nausea, and I'm pretty, pretty afraid that I forgot all my English, let alone the bit of French I learned with my sister for the tests!

OH MY GOD I'm approaching the gates! This is so thrilling! I wish I was already in there, what if I lend the wrong document for the guard, what if he thinks I'm suspect and don't let me in, what if...

I paid the taxi and send it away.

- _Le laissez-passer, s'il vous plaît _.

My shaking hand dropped something on the elegant and blond guard's glove.

- _Bienvenue, Mademoseille. Profitez de votre séjour._

Two dozens of steps ahead, and the huge oak door greeted me. I turned the doorknob slowly. Silence all around. Maybe I had gotten too early, or too late?

Sigh.

Here we go.

* * *

**Notes:**

Le laissez-passer, s'il vous plaît - The pass, please.

Bienvenue, Mademoseille. Profitez de votre séjour. - Welcome, miss. Enjoy your stay. 


	2. Not a very good beginning

Too good to be true. I _was_ late. All the (decent) people were already inside the classrooms watching the first classes. The stupid me had forgotten the time zones and caught a flight that would not get in time. On the other hand, who would expect that the people would have classes in the very morning they got there? Well, not in vain it was the top of the top Institute of the world.

After I explained my situation to a not so gentle administrator, he led me to the Headmaster's room. Great; not even in my worst childhood days I had gone to the headmaster's room, and what's the first thing I do when I start to study abroad? What a shame. The headmaster was in a meeting with some important diplomats, so I sat in the waiting room, bitting my nails. My luggage had vanished. I was thinking about the most incisive and beseechingly ways to apologize for my fault, when a noise of voices took my concentration. Two boys, maybe twins, ran into the room, and although I shouldn't feel like that, I became very glad that I was not the only late student now. More relaxed, I had decided to make a game with myself and try to guess their nationality, but it got evident in the first words, so [part of] the fun was lost.

-_Vee~~ fratello!_ Our dad is gonna kill us!

In fact, they were speaking Italian and I don't understand it. Nevermind, they told it all with the body language too, and as we Brazilians use this language a lot, I'm able to give you a near translation of the argument.

- It's all your fault, bastard! Shouldn't you stay sleeping for life and we would've gotten here earlier!

- Neee~~ but fratello, we could have gotten here earlier too if you hadn't stopped to talk with those cute girls.

- Cute girls are worthier than this - said the twin with darker hair, determinedly. - And you didn't complain when I stopped, so shut up your mouth now!

The other twin got quiet, seeming grieved. He bit his finger nails just like I had, trying to keep silence, but it was stronger than him.

- Our dad said that if we got expelled from one more school, he would exec...

- I know what our dad said - cut his brother. - Now you better shut up and try not to be expelled. It's not that serious - he added, shrugging, trying to calm down his sibbling and himself. - I bet we were not the only ones that got late - he looked around and saw me. And as I'm a girl, he straigthened his back and smoothed his eyebrows before asking, with strong accent (which I don't know to reproduce in written form, so you better imagine) - Good afternoon, lady. Are you also waiting for the Headmaster?

- Ah... yes - I answered.

- Aren't you afraid? - asked the other boy, cutting his brother. - I am! They say she's a dragon lady.

- Dragon lady? - I repeated, smiling at the expression, as "dragon", in my country, is a slang that means "very ugly woman".

- Yeah, very, very stern. Wild - explained the darker-haired guy.

I sighed. Before I could suffer more with this new information, the door of the headmaster's cabinet was opened and the three of us held our breath. The woman's appearance was of a mix of a smaller Margaret Thatcher, Miss Meany and a Tooth Fairy. Both the Italians started to tremble from the top of their heads to their tiptoes, and it wasn't very different with me. She adressed in a pure English, with as much perfection as only a foreigner would care about. She scolded us, in the most polite and yet most fierce way, words like "irresponsibility", "punctuality", "hooliganism" piercing my years. A dot was put to her speach with the younger Italian brother hugged her knees, imploring for her please please _per favore_ not to tell their father, or they'd be fried in boiling oil. Geez, poor guys. For me it just meant to lose the scholarship. The lady had to give him a cup of tea and, a bit ill at ease, sent us kindly to have a lunch, for it was about time. This cheered up the crying boy immediately.

- And can we have pastaaaa~~~? - he shouted, delightful.

When the three of us left the room, each of them hanging in one of my arms and talking as if there wouldn't be a tomorrow, I was perfectly sure that I was the only one that remembered a single word of the Headmaster's scolding.


	3. Acknowledges

I sat at the table with the Italian boys, and they kept talking while three respectable plates of all kinds of pasta we could find in the menu were quickly emptied by us. I'll tell you, Europe is really a little place! Or the rich people in the world perform a very small circle, that's more accurate, maybe. They knew and could tell the roots and rots of most of the people in that dining room. And as we were in a privileged corner of the room, I could observe attentively the objetcs of our talk.

The conversation had started with they telling about themselves. From what I was able to learn amidst the swearing of the darker-haired and the moaning of the other, they were named Lovino and Feliciano, respectively older and younger, and their family belonged to Mafia.

In an attempt to fix them, his father had separated them and sent one to Austria and another to Spain in order to complete their education with two great tutors that, by the way, nowadays taught in this Institute. As it seems, it had not had great results, and the father had gave up the strategy of separating them. They pointed to me the teachers, they were in the dinning room now too, in the teachers table. Both were beautiful guys, the Austriac very stern and the Spaniard very simpatic. They didn't seem old enough to teach there, I was waiting for some mummies covered in Academic titles. But looking carefully, there were other teachers of young appearance there, like a beatiful brown-haired woman, listening enraptured the speech of the Austrian teacher. I asked the Italians who was she.

- Aaah, she, what a piece of a bad way, don't you think? - answered Lovino, resting his chin on his hand and admiring the professor. - This is Elizaveta Hedervary, she...

- She was married to Mr. Roderich - completed Feliciano. - They didn't live happily, you know, Mr. Edelstein thinks just about his art and books, and well, he's a big skinflint too. They divorced three years ago, but I think she still likes him.

- You think? - I laughed. It was evident from the brown haired woman's face.

- He - the older twin chewed, pointing at an albino particularly neat who passed in front of us dressed in a stern blue suit - would eat a truck for her. He's the teacher of Military Diplomacy, Gilbert Beilschmidt. He was a big friend of 's and also his theorical rival. says that he had his glorious times, and he's still smart, but a bit old fashioned in his theories - he turned to his brother. - Did you see that his stinking potato brother is also here? - he asked.

- Where? - exclaimed the other Italian, looking around madly. Lovino roled his eyes.

- I don't know, and I don't wanna know - he said. - I just saw his name in the students list in the internet.

- Ah - Feliciano looked disappointed, and tried to find his friend still a while, until the pasta drew his attention back.

- I don't know why do you like this guy, he's arrogant and unpleasant - turned Lovino, jealous. And then came a intense discussion in Italian, from which they emerged breathless after punching each other in the stomach under the table.

Before they started again, I asked about some students, and they entertained themselves again in the gossip. They told about the moody British student, whom everybody thought was a bit crazy or drank mushroom tea, for he had some hallucinations, the French guy whose life seemed to turn around sex and fashion, the American guy that was so, so, so purely a portrait of the American stereotype... The shy Japanese student and his strange HQs... the sleepyhead Greek student, the Turkish guy that who-knows-why was wearing a mask... Then I pointed to a big youngster with expressionless face sat alone in a table.

- Who's that? - I asked, feeling some pity for his isolation.

- Oooooh, that's Ivan Braginsky, he's Russian - whispered Feliciano. - He's veeeery scary.

- Why? - I turned. He seemed nice for me. Maybe because I always simpathized with Russian people. - Did he kill someone or what? - I ironized.

- Nobody knows - Lovino said, misteriously. - But dad always told us not to tease Russian mafia.

- He is from mafia? - I repeated, astounded. They didn't reply. I don't know if I spoke too loud, but just in that moment the Russian guy looked right on our direction. The Italians dived quickly under the table, as my look crossed with Braginsky's. Was it the distance or he really had purple eyes? He looked away again, uninterested. Feliciano and Lovino came back to their seats.

- And his sister is even creepier, vee~ - said Feliciano. - That's a real pity, 'cause she's so cute - he sighed.

- I wonder why she's not with him - Lovino said. - She never leaves him alone. Seriouly, I even pity the guy.

- Wait, wait, wait - I stop them to talk about a thing that has been bothering for a long time. - Isn't this institute supposed to receive just one student from every country? How come there is so many siblings here?

They exchange a look.

- Well, there's always a way - said Lovino, shrugging.

- Mr. Ivan's sisters are registered not in Russia, but in Ukraine and Belarus - explained Feliciano. - Mr. Alfred and Mr. Mathew have just the same mother, but different parents.

- As for us, our dad told the headmaster: you cannot separate my kiddos! They were born together! Can a knife separate the two halves of a ball and it still work for a game? Can a bullet separate the two halves of your brain and you remain alive? What if we try it?

- And then we're in - said Feliciano, with a meek smile. - Hey, miss, can we have more wine? - he added cheerfully for a sort of waitress that passed by, while the pasta on my plate felt not that tasteful to me anymore.


	4. The first class

I'm a failure, seriously. I got lost in my way to the bathroom and arrived in the class right in the moment when the teacher was closing the door. I put my foot to impede him and almost had it cut. The door was opened again and the red eyes of the Military Diplomacy (or rather, Military International Law)teacher faced me mockingly.

- A lagger! - he exclaimed. - You lack discipline, miss. Let your teacher of Military take care of this, pay 32 pushups and 15 situps. Now! - he shouted.

I goggled at him, horrified. Then, he laughed hard.

- I'm joking, find a place for you - he ordered me. - Yet the males of this classroom will get disappointed with me, considering your skirt, kesesekese~ - he added, loud enough for everybody in the classroom to hear, some burst in laughter as if they were not adults, but high school folks.

The room was not very large. I didn't see the Italians; I reckon they had been put in the other class, and the Headmaster hadn't dared to divide them even for this purpose. Almost all the places were occupied, except for one desk in the back corner of the room. That was just what I needed. When I approached, however, feeling my face burn, I noticed that the desks were double, and half of the mine was just occupied. With an nonplused grimace, I faced the ocupant. It was that Ivan Braginsky guy.

- May I...? - I asked, forgetting all my English due to my shame and confusion.

- 'course - he answered simply, emphasizing the "r" in a cute manner, without a single glance at me.

The teacher had explored enough the incident with me and now came to the subject itself. Or not. First he presented his brother, Ludwig Beilschmidt, which happened to be in our class. He was sat in the opposite back corner, trying to hide behind some books, and I really pitied him when the teacher draw the attention of the whole group to the blond guy. He went pink, and his eyes faced sternly the blackboard, while our albino teacher kept talking about how his brother was better and smarter than any other student of that school - no wonder, as he had been taught from childhood by that so awesome teacher! - and that his Luddy would beat all of us on the marks. And woe to him if he didnt'!... Man, I really pitied that guy, while the glaring of at least half the class was driven towards him. And yet, it could be only my impression, but his face reflected some proud among the confusion and embarassment.

-...and also - he said - he'll have the advantage that he's German, so he'll have a lot of good stuff to research in this subject. Germany historically had great military power and can provides us excelent study material...

- Yeah, like the Nuremberg Court - someone shouted in the class, making the people burst in laughter again and even I had to hide a smile.

The teacher waited patiently for our hilarity to stop.

- I'll make you guys rethink this issue - he said, simply, and proceeded with the lecture.

In spite of his loose behaviour, the teacher showed us, along that afternoon, why he had been given the chair. For the next 4 hours, he entertained us with lively reports of battles, linking them to most obscure details of the juridical negotiations that had been led through the war, until its ending. He started with Peloponnese, leading us to the birth of Roman Empire in this first day. I drank all of his words, transported to that old romantic time, feeling the emotions of the generals and the soldiers, almost forgetting to take notes.

- That's enough for today, I need some beer. For our next class - he finalized, about 17:30 on the afternoon - you will bring me a paper about the Punic Wars and all the conditions that led to the fall of Carthage. I'm not exacting much of you, as this is our first day. I want it short and clear, yet full of details, just like my lecture was. Don't try to make up what you don't know with beautiful words. I'm not wanting to read whole books. Go to the point. Besides, from your analisys you shall come out with a draft of a treatise containing peace conditions that could have saved Carthage, and might be accepted by Rome. And now you're free.

- Excuse me, when is our next class? - asked a girl in the middle rows of desk.

- In two days, kesesekese~~ - said Mr. Beilschmidt, picking his briefcase and marching towards the door with it under his arm. - Good luck!

There was a race to the library, like a throng of elephants, and all the books about Carthage were, in twenty minutes, taken. Happily, I didn't followed the Brazilian rule of "do everything in the last minute", or it could have damned me this time. I knew I wouldn't be able to continue studying with my stomach empty, then I took the books with me to the dinning room. They served the dinner from 18:00h to 20:00h. I ate hastily, as I felt that if I didn't started the homework soon, I'd never be able to finish. Besides, after so many fiascos in a day, for the sake of my country I should be something worthy and represent it better.

I took a little to find the dormitory they had assigned me. Number 28-A, in the end of the first corridor of the seven in the dormitories' wing. I put my books on the ground to open the door and entered to put my bag in its place. Then I went out again to pick the books. Right in this moment the dweller of the 30-A was coming out and I gasped when I noticed it was the same Russian boy I had sat with wordlessly during all the afternoon. By the way his eyes _were_ violet.

I stared at him and he looked back interrogatively, then I decided to talk before the situation became awkward.

- Looks like we're neighbors here too - I said.

- _Ironiya sud'by_ - he turned, with a gentle smile.

- What? - I asked, confused.

- Irony of fate, I said - the Russian explained. - That's an old Soviet movie... nevermind - he kept quiet for a second. Then, as if noticing his solecism, he presented himself. - I'm Ivan Braginski, I'm from Russia - and reached out his big hand, which I shook, or rather, tried to.

- And I'm from Brazil, my name is...

- Erika - he said. - It was written on your notebook - Ivan explained, with a funny smile to my puzzled face.

Before I could said anything else, another voice with cute accent in the R's was her down the corridor, a feminine voice.

- Can you believe, big brother, that they won't let me move neither to your classroom nor to the same corridor as you? - she was spitting fire. - That's an absurd! I told the headmaster, I spent all my lunch and about one hour after classes trying to convince her, but she won't change her mind. Argh, that witch!

- Calm down, sis - said the man, meekly. - We're still in the same building.

- With all those boring people surrounding me. I wanted to stay near from _you_! - she complained, annoyed. Then she saw me. Her glare was so intense that I felt my eyes burning. - Who's that? - she snapped, cross-armed.

- That's Erika, she's my classmate - the Russian introduced. I waved shily at her. - And that's my younger sister Natalia - she didn't returned the greeting. - _Davai, Natasha, bud' vejliva [1]_! - Ivan muttered, looking it at ease.

- Hi - she said, grudgingly. - Come big brother, I'm hungry, let's eat! - Natasha said, then, grasping her brother's arm and taking him away.

I observed them walking away. Was that the Belarusian or the Ukrainian sister? Shrugging, I opened my door and went to Carthage.

* * *

[1] Come, Natasha, be polite!


	5. Neutralism

- Neutralism? - I exclaimed, looking at my lessons' chart what I had for that morning. - What kind of subject is this?

I was having breakfast with the Italian brothers. They were eating polenta, and this time I didn't followed them in the choice of meal. I tried to find French bread and milk with coffee to keep up to my national use.

- Neee~~ the very owner of the school teaches it - declared Feliciano, reverently. - Mr. Vash Zwingli.

- He says: all the schools teach Alternative Methods of Solving Conflicts, but I'll teach ways to never get into a conflict, first of all - informed Lovino, covering his yellow food with the lively red Bolognese sauce.

- Weird... - I said. - But interesting. They could very well bring a Brazilian teacher for this one.

Both were too busy with their food to ask me an explanation for my comment. What, by the way, disappointed me a bit. I changed the subject.

- Did you guys discover what class you lost yesterday morning? - I asked. They goggled at me and I thought Feliciano would start crying.

- Yeah, we lost Mr. Edelstein's lecture, and he already passed us an awful load of homework - he mumbled.

- That bastard! - complained Lovino. - And the afternoon teacher also passed us some stuff to do, but how does she suppose we'll be able write something, Feli and I didn't hear a word of what she was speaking.

- Vee~ we were too busy discussing if the teacher would be more beautiful in pants or in a skirt - explained Feliciano. I nodded, disbelieving.

- You're darned - I said, laughing.

- Never mind, we'll find someone to copy - Lovino shrugged.

- I think you can't copy in this school - I opined. - They probably really read what you write.

The darker-haired twin looked at me solemnly.

- You can always copy, miss Erika, learn this - he said. - Always.

I laughed hard. This thought was perfectly Brazilian-like, I felt so at home with those guys. I glanced at my watch.

- I still want to go to the bathroom and brush my teeth, so I better get going. Good classes for you guys.

- _Ciao!_

Maybe my morning teacher of yesterday had also given us homework. I'd better ask someone. This I got to class with time to spare. Few people were there already, and I sat behind the Englishman that the Italians had pointed to me in our lunch together. He was very cute, in spite of some huge black eyebrows hanging in his face like a pair of caterpillars.

- Excuse me, sir - I called him. He looked at me in a mix of indifference and curiosity - Do we have to deliver something to the teacher of International Maritime Law?

- Yes. We have to deliver him an essay with all that we already know about the international waters.

- Oh, that's simple, thanks God - I breathed, relieved.

- Weren't you here yesterday? - the blond guy asked me.

- I got late and lost the morning class - I explained. He didn't reply, and turned to the blackboard again, but I could feel the profound despise he felt for my lack of punctuality. I was still trying to find an excuse for my delay, as I wouldn't like to be despised by that youngster, when a short man of tanned skin asked permission and sat beside me. I gave up the Englishman and started to talk with him. He was Indian and named Raj [1]. A very friendly guy with a funny accent. We kept talking until the teacher entered the room.

Mr. Vash Zwingli was short and blond and seemingly tetchy. He first explained us how would be his methods of teaching, testing, and all the regular stuff, and then he said that he wouldn't stand there speaking to us a lot of babbling right now. First he wanted to know with which kind of idiots he was dealing. He told us some words about neutrality in wars and bid us to join in groups of four people and discuss on the topic "How important are the guns to keep us out of conflicts". The Englishman, whose name was Arthur Kirkland, and his partner Alfred Jones, turned to me and Raj, as we were the first four in that row of seats.

- Mr. Zwingli, should we deliver you an essay with our conclusions? - asked Arthur Kirkland, raising his hand.

- Sure. But not very long - said the teacher.

The groups formed. When the noise had calmed again, Arthur Kirkland, who had set the paper and pen to take notes of our conclusions, asked:

- So... what do you think? "How important are the guns to keep us out of conflicts"? - he read.

- Fundamental - said Alfred, before I and Raj could open our mouths. - They're simply the basis of peace. Write that down and deliver our paper to the teacher.

I could tell from Arthur's eyes that if he had a gun right now, Alfred wouldn't be kept out of a conflict.

- Excuse me, but it's supposed to be a debate. Why should us just write down _your_ opinion, and dot? - he replied coldly.

- 'Cause I'm the leader of this group.

- Who said?

- I said - replied the American guy, almost naïvely. - I'm just tryin' to make things easier for my team, and then we can talk about things more interesting, such as baseball or football or...

- I think neutralism _is_ an interesting thing to talk about - that was the British, getting angrier every second. - But in my humble opinion, you should be kept out of the conversation, as your country most surely doesn't have the faintest idea of what it is to be neutral, and besides...

- Oh, oh, stop the xenophobia, boys - I cut, seeing Alfred get red and open his mouth, probably to curse Arthur's mother. Deep in my heart, though, I effusively agreed with the eyebrows' guy.

-...and besides why do you call that stupidity "football" if you not even use the feet in it - grumbled the moody British to himself.

- Raj, what do you think about it? - I said, loudly, ignoring the glaring between the blondes. The Indian raised his eyebrows, surprised for having been mentioned.

- Well, Mr. Gandhi made a revolution without a gun [2], so I respectfully disagree of the American sir - he opined. Alfred looked startled.

- But a revolution is a conflict, so he wasn't kept out of one, but put in one - Arthur pondered, letting us all a bit confused.

- Well, I agree with Raj. In my country, some years ago, we had a voting for the complete disarmament of the population [3] - I told. - Unhappily it didn't happen, but just because of the fear propaganda.

- What an abomination! - exclaimed Alfred, horrified. - The Constitution of the United States of America grants to everyone the right of bearing a gun [4]!

- Someone skipped the classes about jurisdiction [5] - groaned Arthur. I smiled.

- The Constitution of the United States of America doesn't apply to Brazil, Mr. Jones, even if we _are_ in America the Continent - I explained, just in case.

- Alfred, please, sweetie. No need to be formal - he corrected, with a wave of hand. - And what are your names, folks? Erika, Raj, Arthur... Can I call you Artie?

- I would rather like Mr. Kirkland, if you don't mind - was the answer, cold as a stalagmite.

- So, Artie, looks like we have a dilemma. They are the majority but they're wrong. Would you vote with me, so that we can give the teacher the answer that he wants to hear?

- I think, Miss Batista, Mr. Garai - Arthur didn't even look at Alfred - that you could think over the question a bit. I mean, I understand your point, but in spite of the pacifist mindsets of your people, your countries do have armies, don't they?

It wasn't easy to finish the lesson, but after a very long discussion, with the constant danger of Alfred's murder by Arthur, we adopted Kirkland's Mr. Miyagi point of view - learn how to fight so you don't have to fight - and delivered our conclusions to the teacher in the very last minute of the class.

- Neutralism - I heard Alfred Jones mumbling, when coming out of the classroom, very disappointed with the little importance we had given to the guns. - This subject's bullshit, just bullshit. There's no one neuter whatsoever in the world.

For the first time in that morning, and probably the only one in my life, I agreed with him.

* * *

**Notes:**

1. As the character India still doesn't have a human name, I gave him the name "Raj Garai". Garai is a common bengali name, according to the internet.

2. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhiwas the preeminent leader and freedom fighter of Indian nationalism in British-ruled India. Employing nonviolent civil disobedience, Gandhi led India to independence and inspired movements for civil rights and freedom across the world.

3. You can find about this event in Wikipedia under the title "Brazilian firearms and ammunition referendum, 2005". You can also read about efforts of disarmament that happened more recently typing in the Google "Brazil's Disarmament Campaign has collected 13,206 firearms".

4. "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed." (2nd Amendment of the Constitution of the USA).

5. Jurisdiction: The geographic area over which authority extends; legal authority; the authority to hear and determine causes of action.


End file.
